


burn your kingdom down

by NotusLethe



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb is Nott's dad, Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Canon-Typical Violence, Fast and Loose with D&D Rules, M/M, Molly is the group mom, One Big Happy Family, Slash, Took German to a Back Alley & Hurt It, Vague Spoilers for Whole Series, descriptions of torture, implied Beau/Yasha, implied Fjord/Jester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 23:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotusLethe/pseuds/NotusLethe
Summary: I've made mistakes in my life. I harmed a lot of people, not in a long time.No matter what he does to hide it, Caleb's past comes to light anyway. Molly helps.





	burn your kingdom down

**Author's Note:**

> Any brutalities committed to German are entirely my own and I would love corrections.

They tell you: _**never wear your heart on your sleeve** _ ,  
Because you never bring to the surface  
Something meant to be encased in bone - Nikki Ursula

  

By now, Caleb should know better than to hide. He doesn't have Nott's small form or Jester's godly favor, and so instead find himself attempting to conceal his presence only to end up right where the monster appears. He'd think it _das Pech_ if he didn't know how much it was his own fault.

The small copse of elm trees bend together in an arch, a fanciful entrance to the forest, but providing enough cover that Caleb feels safe.

Safer.

He's been picking off the dryads with Scorching Ray. They catch fire easily enough, and the dry brittle bark of their hand-fashioned clothes send them up quickly. He doesn't even have time to watch them burn. It's not as bad; they only creak and snap like logs in a campfire. By then, they look nothing like people.

The problem, of course, had been not the dryads themselves, but their sheer number, thirty or so. They'd congregated around a small altar of heavy stones, moss-covered and black, glistening with dew and haphazardly arranged into a small heap with two towering spires, every stone stacked more improbably balanced than the one beneath.

The dryads killed anyone who wandered too close to their little shrine. While both Caleb and Molly checked the area beforehand for religious artefacts, it did little to ease the growing worry that they'd inspire a god's wrath with their activities.

Nott - who'd taken proclivity for tasting anything she became curious about for whatever reason - noted the variety of different blood on the altar. The dryads' victims did not go to waste.

The dryads, although not forgetting his existence, seem mostly distracted with Beau's destructive spinning about as she is wont, and the heavy swath of death as Yasha brings down her greatsword. Caleb does not need to conceal himself.

Molly and Fjord stand off to the leftmost side, back to back and shouting emphatically to each other in an effort to be heard over the crackling of wood and the shrieks the dryads employ. Whatever they discuss is lost to Caleb.

Nott's added a bit of spell fire to her crossbow. The bolts strike a dryad every moment or so, and their shifting origins means she's safe, moving swiftly. The giant lavender lollipop smashes an occasional dryad into tinder and so Jester is also nearby. Everyone works together, more cohesive than they'd been in a long time. Caleb steps out of the trees.

The ground rumbles. The din dies down as all movement ceases. Caleb quickly flicks his gaze around, but he doesn't notice anything amiss.

A dry whispering sound starts, like branches disturbed by a strong wind, and it only grows louder, until Caleb realizes the source. The dryads are laughing.

"Well, that's not fucking ominous," Molly quips, even as his blades light up with a faint white glow.

"Why are they _laughing_?" Nott's tremulous voice warbles up from somewhere near Yasha's discarded dryad pile and edges into panic. Fjord raises his empty hand toward Nott, placating.

"Won't matter much in a bit."

"But-"

Caleb takes a step toward Nott, hoping to head off her descent into full-blown terror. The rumbling starts again, stronger. Their entire party wobbles, and Beau crouches low to shift her center of gravity. Caleb, a reluctant deduction forming in the back of his mind, ignores it in favor of heading toward Nott again.

The ground erupts. The dryads shriek.

Caleb's taken to hoarding any bestiary books he finds and making it a point to read them once a month. Now that they've made a name for themselves hunting creatures, he knows preparation is their best chance of survival. Since then, he's been knowledgeable of most beasts they encounter.

As such, he's not unaware of the thing that emerges from the ground. If he'd taken just a few seconds to think about it, Caleb would've known it long before it showed itself.

The earth elemental towers over them. Common earth elementals are only a little larger than humans, but some factor - the area or the devotion - spurred it into gigantic proportions. It must be nearly twenty feet tall.

Caleb knows something about the power of devotion.

"He's so shiny!" Jester says. She's right. The dark stone - obsidian, perhaps, though Caleb can't be sure - gleams even with a fine coating of dirt. Obsidian fractures easily, but relying on that information would be a quick way to die.

"Just makes'em a better target," Beau shouts as she whirls around her stick and slams it into the elemental twice. The elemental groans, but doesn't seem too concerned with the damage.

Beau isn't going to be much help, nor Yasha. He glances over at Molly and Fjord, only to find the half-orc already looking at him. There's a brief exchange of nods, and the two swordsmen run toward the elemental. If Beau and Yasha focus on the dryads, they should be fine. The elemental's weak to something and if he takes a moment - thunder. He'll spin up Chromatic Orb.

"Yasha!" Beau launches herself at the elemental, but it bats her away easily. The earth elemental brings down its combined fists and bashes Yasha into the ground. She staggers, sinking to one knee, and rolls back out of the way. There's blood dripping from her hairline; she jerks her chin at Beau.

"I'm alright. Be careful; it's very strong," Yasha says. Molly grabs and squeezes her forearm as they exchange places. Both Fjord and Molly swing, connecting with the earth elemental. Shards of black rock fly off the main body and there's a deep groan, like a tree pulled from the roots.

Caleb fires off his Orb and the booming sound of thunder hits the elemental. It shifts to look at him, the tumble of boulders down a mountain. Caleb's far enough away that he isn't concerned, especially with Fjord and Molly worrying the creature.

While the the others work on thinning out the dryads, Caleb spins up his Orb again. He'll need to be more careful, as Molly and Fjord constantly circle the creature.

A loud squeak - cry - yelp; Caleb whirls around. Four dryads surround Nott. She's nimble, agile, quick and responsive but _four_ would give anyone trouble.

He breaks into a run, doesn't even think about it - _schell Dummkopf!_ \- doesn't look where he's going.

The earth elemental takes a step, the ground quaking, the hulking black mass appearing in his path. Caleb stumbles over his own feet, lands on his ass. The elemental raises his arms, fists combined into a strong hammer, brings it down.

"-fucking kidding me right now-"

The elemental's eyes - sparkling hematite in that jet black face - cloud over and the fist slams into the ground next to Caleb, hard enough to send a wave of dirt over his clothes and aerate into his lungs for a coughing fit.

He scrambles back, and launches another round of Chromatic Orb. It's enough.

Cracks spread over the elemental, the light of the magic animating it streaking out in bright blue, and with a cacophonous screech, the elemental shatters.

"Nott?" Caleb says, struggling to get the word out through ragged breathing.

"She's fine, she's fine. The devil on her shoulder's watching out for her." Sure enough, the giant lollipop finishes off the last dryad of the quartet and Nott looks unharmed. When Molly bends over to give Caleb a hand, something warm drips in a line, on Caleb's stomach, chest, throat, jaw. He smears his fingers through it. Blood.

"You're bleeding."

That obnoxious, sardonic grin spreads over Molly's face. "Am I? How different for me."

Molly yanks Caleb upright. Even with his usual cheery face, Caleb can see the lines creased on his forehead, the darting way his eyes run over Caleb's features.

"I'm _fine_. Let's-" he gestures toward the three remaining enemies.

It's quick work to finish off the dryads. At some point, both Jester and Beau took heavy hits, their faces and bodies bruised. Yasha - after a brief congress on how to proceed - kicks down the altar, scattering the stones, and they all promise to carry some away to prevent it from being rebuilt. She promptly collapses.

"Yasha!" Jester adominishes, sinking to her knees, Cure Wounds at the ready. "You can't keep these things to yourself."

With that, their cleric is tapped out. Mutual agreement sends them back to the town that hired them, though the going is slow and painful. Fjord volunteers to collect their payment, using some of the stones as proof, and the rest of the group trudge back to their inn.

Yasha, who'd been staying with Molly and Fjord, ends up in Beau and Jester's room for more healing. Jester frets in an amorphous way, tutting while she makes bandages she doesn't need, grinds up poultices that are mostly leftovers of pastries, and braids Yasha's hair in complex designs. The barbarian endures it without comment, so maybe it's doing the job anyway.

In their room, Caleb makes Nott remove her wrappings and examines her for injuries. Except for a few scrapes and scratches, she's unharmed. In turn, Nott makes him remove his coat, and does the same until she's satisfied. She balks at the blood on him, until he explains where it's from.

"Molly saved you," Nott says, carefully winding up her bandages in a messy roll.

"I know."

"No, he _really_ saved you. That thing was gonna turn you into a puddle."

"I _know_." Caleb debates putting back on his coat. He puts it on, shifts around the shoulders, then takes it off. His shirt and vest aren't in much better condition, though they don't have nearly as many holes.

"You have that smelly shirt you got the other day." Nott says, nonchalant as she spreads out her collection of buttons and other shiny objects. She grabs her polishing rag that Yasha gifted her from her own stores and begins doing just that.

The shirt is smelly because it is brand-new. The purveyor of a luxury store fretted and fawned over the color of Caleb's eyes and how it matched the shirt like it was made from the vitreous humour of his irises and really Caleb took the shirt to shut the man up. Caleb hadn't even been able to get any of the parchment he needed. Once they get to a different, decent town, Caleb will sell the shirt.

Probably.

There's absolutely no reason Caleb needs to change his shirt. That's ridiculous.

"Nott, I am…" he trails off. She's not paying attention to him, or perhaps anything other than her shiny collection.

Fjord and Molly's room lies at the other end of the hall, the far corner blessed with no neighbors. Caleb hesitates, puts his knuckles against the door, pulls them back. Then he knocks, quiet, hoping there's no one in the room and he can escape.

"Stop panicking out there and come inside," Molly calls, voice warm with what has to be a mischievous smile, but a little strained.

Caleb quickly opens and closes the door, creating just enough space to slip inside. He blanches immediately and almost darts back out.

Molly stands unclothed from the waist up, a large rough stretch of linen pressed against his skin, collar to waist, a dark stripe of something seeping through the middle. It has to be blood, the viscous way it spreads, the grin Molly throws over his shoulder with what's more of a grimace.

" _Scheiße_ , you're hurt-"

"Ah, I'm always hurt-"

"Hurt badly, this time." Caleb, without much thought, pulls at the linen until he can see the wound. It's deeper than he's seen in a very long time. He moves his hand in a half-remembered automatic gesture in front of his chest.

"Look at that, ruined the fucking oleander." Molly brings his hand up to touch the edge of the cut, stifles any noise when he presses. Molly tilts his head back with a sigh.

"There were no enemies with blades. How did you get cut so badly?" Caleb knows that Molly's abilities require blood. It's been obvious since very early in their acquaintance. But the cuts have always been precise and well-placed, Molly being the perpetrator. At the very least, he'd want to avoid the tattoos, which couldn't have been cheap with the level of their quality.

For the first time in - in _ever_ \- a darker violet creeps over Molly's throat where he's rapidly swallowing.

"It's nothing. Self-inflicted. Got a bit carried away, I guess." Molly presses the cloth back over his wound with a wince.

He knows what Molly got carried away with. The Blood Maladict has saved many of them many times, and Caleb remembers every time it was for him.

Caleb sets his pack on the nearest bed and presses gently on Molly's uninjured shoulder. "Sit down, please."

A smile, large and lascivious, bursts across Molly's features in a familiar way. This is the expression he always uses when innuendo is coming, when he wants to unnerve and disorient whomever it's aimed at. The effects on Caleb are minimal at best. "However you want me, sir."

Ignoring him, Caleb pulls out the kit from his pack and opens it. He sets the bandages to one side, the splints he doesn't bother with, and the salves he reads until he finds the right one. He made sure to put a needle and thread in the pack too, considering how he'd most often use it. Molly peers over his shoulder.

"Is that a…" The sentence ends, Molly's voice soft.

"A healer's kit, yes."

"Well," Molly starts, bluster creeping back into his tone. "Don't have much use for that, do we? I just planned to wait until morning, when Jester's got all her spells back."

"Oh, there's no need. I, er, I learned how to use one a little bit ago."

Fingers, warm like sun-baked stones, clench around his wrist. Caleb stops, follows the purple skin up until he reaches Molly's taciturn face. It's distressing, to see something so mobile and evocative, so still.

"You can't just… _learn_ how to heal, Caleb."

Caleb pulls his hand gently out of Molly's grasp. He sets down the copper bowl he brought, fills it with water from his flask, and places the thread and needle inside. He casts a cantrip to boil the water. "It was easy enough. I had to, ah, take some time every day to study, but it is not so complicated a thing."

"We have… we have Jester and Yasha. Those two can- can do some of the- you didn't need to-" Molly stares, but Caleb keeps fussing with the parts of the healer's kit.

" _Ja_ , that's true. But it is so often Yasha who gets hurt, so she must heal herself. Beau and Fjord are more vocal when they get injured." Caleb's restless hands still. "You. You hurt yourself every time, _ich denke_ , but you never ask for anything unless it is grave."

Those warm fingers come up to Caleb's jaw, tilt his head up just enough to see Molly's face, whose expression has contorted into something unknown, brows furrowed, lip trembling.

"You didn't learn how to use a healer's kit for me, did you Caleb?"

The question comes out low, neutral, but Caleb feels something behind it, laced through with meaning he can't parse. "Uh, not just - not _just_ for you. Well. Yes."

Molly's face twists again, almost painful. Then, he leans forward, and with lips so hot they're like a sear, presses his mouth to the corner of Caleb's. He lingers, breath shaky as it's drawn in and released. Then, Molly pulls back, and with a final stroke of his thumbs over Caleb's cheekbones, he lets go. He grins, and there's a tinge of its usual bravado.

"Well then, stitch me up, doc." He pushes out his chest and rests on his palms behind him.

Caleb tries to pick up the needle but drops it a few times. His mouth burns long after it should've faded, and he can't stop darting out his tongue to swipe across the spot, like the flavor will change. Eventually, as he flexes and curls his fingers enough, he manages to pick up the needle and thread it. Molly makes absolutely no movement when the needle pierces the edge of his skin, or the thread that follows through.

After a few moments of silence, Molly speaks. "You're _very_ good for someone who just learned."

"I have done this often, before, though I was very bad at it."

"Before?"

Caleb nods, distracted by the rhythmic motions. "At the temple."

"O'course, at the temple. Temple of, ah-"

"Pelor." Caleb adds another length of thread to the one he's pulling through. "My father was a tailor, so, _natürlich_ , I sewed most of the wounds. The most resistance was in the outskirts of town."

"Alright," Molly says, stilling Caleb's hand. "I'm gonna have to stop you there. As much as I want to listen - and believe me, it's killing me to stop you right now - you seem a little distracted. I don't want you to tell me anything that you wouldn't- well - wouldn't ordinarily share."

Caleb huffs, averting his gaze. "You think this is so distracting I cannot know what I am saying? You think, what, this is addling my mind?" He presses his fingers low on Molly's stomach.

"It's happened to others," Molly says, a sharp breath near a gasp.

"I know what I am telling you. Do you want to listen?"

"More than just about anything."

"Then listen." Caleb resumes his slow careful stitches. "The others and I, we faced the most danger on the outskirts of town."

"The others?"

"The other paladins."

"Fucking - " Molly lets out a string of words in Infernal. Then, he squeezes his eyes shut and flutters his hand. "Sorry, go ahead. You and the other- the other fucking- fucking paladins."

"The townsfolk did not have many weapons other than their farming implements. Lots of pointy, sharp things. I sewed up many of my comrades."

"Your stitches look great," Molly says, a smile bordering on hysterical creeping across his face. "That must've been a lot of pitchforks."

"Sickles, mostly. Lots of wheat and barley to harvest."

"Naturally."

Caleb finishes up the stitches, tying off the thread with an ugly knot. He tosses the bloody water onto the floor, pours fresh water, and heats it. He cleans his fingers, then begins to gently dab salve over the closed wound.

"I did not stay with the group long. I was good at something more than the stitches."

"Magic. You had a natural talent for magic."

" _Ja, stimmt_. Our leader wanted to train me for, uh, advanced things."

Molly lifted his chin as Caleb began to press clean bandages to the medicated stitches. "Hold on. Pelor's one of the least controversial deities out there. Why were you getting such push back from the good townspeople? They weren't baby-sacrificing chaotics, were they?"

Caleb stops, his hands resting against the end of the wound, rising and falling with every one of Molly's breaths. "Our temple was a _sechs_ \- sect called _die Ordnung der Gerechtigkeit_."

"And for the rest of the class who don't speak Zemnian?"

"The Order of, ah, Fairness? No, a better word. Righteousness."

"Oh boy." Molly takes Caleb's hands in his own, moves to peer right into Caleb's eyes. "My friend, that word is evocative of not great things. Very not great things."

"Yes. It was more portentous than I knew."

Molly crowds closer, and Caleb goes stiff, suddenly aware of their proximity. Although Molly wears a smile, it isn't the mocking thing he so often employs. Rather, it's delicate, the nascent stirring of something.

The door slams open; Caleb springs back.

"Oh, ah, am I interruptin' something? Excuse me." Fjord colors rapidly, fumbling for the handle to shut the door again.

"You're not interrupting! This orgy's available for everyone. In fact, we were waiting for you, Fjord," Molly says, loud enough for anyone within thirty feet to hear.

"Orgy?" Nott screeches. Her shout invites a rapid clatter of footsteps.

The moment slips away.

 

* * *

 

The next place they visit - Keshmara - exists somewhere between a town and a city: small enough for the people to clump together and whisper, large enough for three inns and a wide assortment of shops. Keshmara also boasts a large Imperial library, which Caleb immediately makes note of.

For once, their journey to a new town didn't require the wholesale slaughter of bandits or wolves or other nefarious beings attacking them in the dead of night. Their arrival is unhindered - they arrive mostly clean and with little urgency. Caleb finally decides that he will visit one of the sundries shops first, to restock his less unusual spell components and healer's kit, but when he glances up from his internal calculations, most of his companions are gone. Only Nott stands at his side, eyeing the swift movement of people passing by.

"Where did everyone go?"

"To find an inn, I think. And other things. Does that man look grumpy enough?" Nott asks, pointing at an elf in a bespoke ruby-toned suit, the yellow flash of gold glinting at his ears, hands, pocket. 'Grumpy' has become shorthand for rich enough to steal from and not incite Molly's scolding.

"Yes, he does. I will-" Caleb wants to stick around, watch Nott to make sure she has an out if needed. But she's so good at what she does now, nearly invisible half the time, and his presence will only increase suspicion. He swallows deeply before his next words. "I will be at Sotherby's Sundries, ok _liebling_?"

She nods, her attention rapt on her target, and Caleb slowly makes his way down the street. He's not used to moving through places alone anymore. How had he lived for so long without companions, and, in no time at all, feels awkward without anyone? His whole personality is being alone and anxiety, surely he should have a better grip on how to handle a solitary walk through a town.

Hardly anyone takes notice of him. Uncomfortable, but he supposes unsurprising. His coat finally reached a state of unwearable, falling apart at the seams, encrusted in so much dirt and blood and grime it was the only thing holding it together, he'd had get a new one. Even the dirtiest, oldest, most used item he could find was scores better than his old coat. Molly and Jester took the time to sew an array of pockets on the inside. Jester embroidered each one she made with fanciful designs, crude as they made be. The new coat didn't call as much attention to him as the old had. It was almost disappointing.

Sotherby's Sundries is crowded. The shop can only be fifteen feet square or so, but the shelves are teeming with people, including a curious number of halflings. Caleb slips his way to the front, bumping into people with enough clumsy force that they ignore his muttered apologies and wandering hands. Most of them don't have anything worth stealing, and Caleb's forte is more in the verbal trickery than pickpocketing. Besides, at this point, it's rote rather than necessity.

The clerk has everything he needs, including a curved needle she recommends for difficult areas of skin instead of the straight one he uses for everything. She gushes about new techniques in healing, obviously a favored past-time of hers, and doesn't notice through all of Caleb's bumbling praise and banter that he shorts her five silver. She enthusiastically reminds him to come back for whatever he needs.

Nott sits in the alley just beside the shop, intently staring at something in her hands. When he inquires, she shows him her bounty: six buttons of platinum-backed mother-of-pearl, ten gold pieces, two rings with blue gems in them, and a silver pocketwatch. Caleb - never doubtful of Nott's abilities - is impressed.

"All of this from the one elf?"

"He had so much more, but a group of guards came by and I lost him." She pushes everything into her bag, except for some gold and the watch. "For you."

Caleb takes the gold, he doesn't argue with her about it anymore, but hesitates on the watch. "I don't need a watch, you know. I can tell time without any of that."

"I know that. It's not a watch." Nott opens the device. Indeed, there is not the familiar cogs and mechanics of a watch, but something else, too many hands, small writing he can't quite make out.

"What is this?"

"Beats me! You're the one who's good at figuring things out." She pushes the not-watch at him. "Are we going to the inn now?"

Caleb puts the curious object in one of his many pockets. "I wanted to see the library-"

"Okay!" Nott shuffles back. "We got rooms at The Three Cherries!"

She's gone before he thinks of a response. He's torn for a moment, between following after her and going about his business. She'll be fine. She'll message him if she has a problem. Frumpkin curves between his legs and Caleb nods, sending his familiar off to follow Nott to the inn.

Trying not to feel inordinately better about getting his way without being intrusive, Caleb heads in the direction of the library.

The Keramesh library looks nothing like the myriad other libraries he's encountered on their journeys. The outside is a slightly rounded box inlaid with a multitude of smaller squares, all opaque white. Striations of gray marble the surface while each square is outlined with heavy black metal to keep it in place and unlit gas lamps at regular intervals. There are no windows, and the usual turrets and other architectural ornamentation seems absent. Crownsguard stand near what must be the entrance, their eyes not catching on him for a moment. On the wall behind them, University of Keshmara Public Library is written in the common tongue, plain chiseled words in the same white-gray stone.

Inside, Caleb realizes what the design means for the library. While solid, the marble must be thin enough to allow the sunlight to filter in, giving the entire building a warm glow - just enough light to read by, with numerous lamps provided at the clustered tables. Spiral black iron staircases lead up to the bookshelves, five floors in each, and the central column of the library is a glass enclosure filled with muted light - a spell that must require constant renewal or some sort of engraved charm.

Caleb makes his way up four flights of stairs. It is his experience that the really good books get shelved at the top of libraries to prevent the common folk from discovering them. Every level is it's own ring around the library, rows of black bars encasing each floor with small rooms every fifteen or so stacks for study or research or private reading time. When Caleb pokes his head in one of the open rooms, there's a sturdy wooden table stained black with benches on either side. The whole inner ring is about ten feet away from the marble walls.

Each level has a scroll outlining the contents of the stacks, and Caleb scans the one for his floor until he finds 'Magickal Artefacts' mixed amongst the numerous other categories. They filing system isn't something he's used to, but he finds a system novel in and of itself.

Only a few people milled around the downstairs area, and the further up he goes, the less people he finds. The fourth floor is empty, as he strolls through the books. There's something about the smell, deep, musky, slightly mildewy, that never fails to soothe. If he can finish what he needs to do, maybe he'll live in this library. No sunlight, hardly any people, innumerable books - nothing missing.

Caleb finds the section on artefacts. He'll try Identify first, to maybe get some grasp on the not-watch, and then try to find an applicable book. He sits cross-legged on the floor and reaches in his pocket for the pearl.

"I'd say I'm surprised to see you here, but it's just about the least surprising thing."

Caleb starts, almost drops the pearl, catches it before it's lost, and shoves it back in his pocket.

Molly stands at the opening to the stacks, one hand propped against a shelf as he leans in. His loud coat looks even brighter amidst the subdued colors, and the lighting makes his jewel-toned skin warm and deep, closer to the red normally found of tieflings.

"Molly-"

With more speed than Caleb usually gives him credit for, Molly is at his feet, hand wrapped in his collar and yanking him upward. The motion is fueled with suppressed anger, simmering just under the surface, and Caleb is bewildered by the aggression. Molly walks him backward until he hits the black railing, the metal so much colder in contrast to the heat of Molly's body nearly pressing against him.

"It's a nice big library, isn't it? No wonder you're here. There's lots to read, you know? You can find books on just about anything."

What the actual fuck is Molly talking about. Caleb quickly glances around, tries to pick up clues, but there's nothing. Molly's hands are empty, though he wears his scimitars, and there's no injuries or people chasing them or anything.

For a very brief moment, Caleb wonders if he'll have to fight off Molly. They are of a similar strength, but Caleb prefers to stay away from any sort of physical harm, and Molly revels in it. Magically, Caleb has the advantage, but it would be messy and long and bloody and one of them is very good with blood.

He shakes away the thought.

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I _talking_ about?" Molly says, the laughter in his voice mirthless and cruel. He flattens his hand against Caleb's collarbone, still pressing. " _Your little secret you shared with me_."

Caleb gapes. Molly's words are in a different language, one he recognizes. " _You're speaking in Zemnian_."

"Oh, don't bother," Molly says, waving his hand around. He switches easily back to common and finally lets go of Caleb to pace. "I don't understand it when you speak it, not really. But I can read it, and I have been reading it, my friend."

Caleb straightens out his clothes. He knows what sharing his past means, knew it at the time he told Molly, but he's so very tired of keeping secrets. It strains the soul, and the darkness there can't handle any more burdens. If he could lessen one, if someone could shoulder just the smallest part.

But maybe he told Molly because Molly is the truest of them. For all his blunder and ostentation, he lies at the heart of their somewhat shaky morality. He pulls them up, each one, and maybe Caleb needed someone to be appalled, someone whose reaction he could trust.

"What have you read?" Caleb asks, quiet. Molly whirls around, coat flapping, and he's smiling again, that terrible thing that's bitter.

"It wasn't easy to find, mind you. Anything I found about it ended up being in Zemnian, which I couldn't read. Finally, I thought, fuck it, I'll learn how to read Zemnian. You learned how to heal for me, so I could do this for you."

Caleb sucks in a breath.

"The Order of the Righteousness, you know what that is? Of course you do, you gotta. And now, so do I. It's a cult, Caleb. And not one of those nice kitschy ones that don't hurt anybody. It's a hurting cult. It hurts people. _You_ hurt people."

"Yes, I did."

"You didn't just hurt people," Molly says, the rant working him up. "You burned them alive. A lot of them. And you do that for us now, and maybe it's a bit of a double-standard, but I'm willing to bet it's not."

"What do you want, Mollymauk?" He doesn't mean to sound exhausted, but the tone of his voice stops Molly's pacing, or the use of his full name, or something. Molly crowds him against the rail again; doesn't touch.

"Can you tell me why?"

"Maybe."

Molly rubs at his mouth for a moment, then shrugs. "I've done more for less."

"Not here," Caleb says, even though the whole floor is silent and there hasn't been a single person walking by. Molly nods and heads toward one of the small research rooms. It's dark when they enter, and Caleb casts Dancing Lights, placing the orbs into one concentrated ball near the center. The light casts the same warm glow on Molly.

Neither sit. Rather, they lean against opposite corners.

Molly tosses a book on the table. The tome is obviously for university purposes, the same tired moss-green of all academic books, a few letters of education in front of the author's name, entitled ' _Folgen sie den Anführer: Kulte des letzten Jahrhunderts._ ' Caleb traces the binding; it's barely been opened, if ever.

"You were a paladin," Molly says, when Caleb stares at the book and remains silent. "You killed what I can only imagine is a lot of people. Needlessly."

"They were _Ketzer_ , heretics. They intended to betray Pelor; they spoke against his teachings. There was a prophet."

"Read about her. Elfriede, right?"

"Yes. I believed in her."

"I hear that's what makes a good paladin."

Caleb nods. "I was a very good paladin, until I was not. We killed a very many people, but I didn't question it. We did it for the right reasons. And…"

Molly sits on the edge of the table, the indignation from earlier wavering. "And they wanted to make you something special."

"Yes. They… implied I could hear the word of Pelor myself. I could be a prophet." Caleb sinks down until he hits the floor, arms coming up around him. He hasn't thought of those events for so long. Molly slips from his perch, crouches in front of Caleb.

"But you had to do something for them first. Classic grifter move, really. No wonder you're so good at it."

"They were cons the whole time, but I did not see it. I could not."

Molly grabs Caleb's shoulders, presses a kiss into his hairline, and pulls him up. "Come on. Let's go."

"But I haven't finished-"

"It's alright. It'll keep." Molly loops his arm through Caleb's, leads him down and out of the library. All his anger has dissipated like pollen in the wind, not a trace of it coloring his movements or voice. Caleb keeps sneaking glances at him, like he might explain his sudden change of mood.

"Molly-"

Molly's grip changes, sneaks around Caleb's waist and yanks them together, no space between them. His eyes follow the passersby, but his attention is not with them. "It's too much, you know, to try to bare your soul all at once. If not for you, then certainly for me. I can't take that much confession in without a healthy dose of questionable alcohol. I'm buying, if you'd like to get properly smashed this evening."

Caleb can't do anything but nod.

 

* * *

 

His amulet still shines red. They'd walked into the clearing aware, knowing it shone red, but feeling prepared nonetheless. The amulet never bled before. He'd watched it turn dark orange, the last burning rays of sunset, but never red. A dark rusty color, blood from deep inside pouring out, life draining away.

Caleb clicks the case shut. He opens it: red. He clicks it shut. He opens it: red.

He'd warned them. They all paused, several hundred feet away, a growing moue of horror for some, unease for others, even Fjord's solid handsome face washing out. The amulet never lied.

The amulet bleeds.

He clicks it open: red. He clicks it shut: it's still red, even if one can't see the color inside. Ominous omens of danger don't go away if you ignore them. He clicks it open: he doesn't need to look.

A hand closes over his, tugs the amulet away. He knows who it is, even if he couldn't feel the warmth of their hands. But he does.

The amulet turns paler in Molly's grasp, a faint butter yellow light before he snaps it shut. Not as much danger, but not safe. Caleb's seen safe: pale blue, almost platinum, the same color as the casing.

"That's not helping, love."

Caleb doesn't look at Molly, his eyes focused on a point millenia ago. "Give it back."

"You don't want that back. You didn't even try to stop me taking it. Jester and Yasha are taking care of it. You trust them, don't you?"

No, he doesn't trust any of them. He trusts that Jester is doing her best, of course. He trusts that Yasha is using her literal angelic powers, of course. But how can he put faith in them truly? How can he know they will succeed?

"She has wings," Beau says, sliding down the wall to sit next to Caleb. She gestures in front of her, making vague wing-like shapes. "Yasha. They're huge and, like, this pinky-purple color. And they glow, Caleb. They glow. I mean, she's full-on angel powers in there, man. She's got this."

He sees Beau make more frantic motions with her hands when he doesn't respond. Fjord clears his throat.

"The Traveler will do anything for Jester, you know that. He'll grant her any boon she wishes, and she wishes for this most of all." His voice still sounds strange, after all this time, the smooth cadence so juxtaposed to the old twang. "Her heart's in it, Caleb. That's- that's the most powerful thing she has."

Caleb says nothing. Beau stands, her shoulder against Fjord as they whisper.

"That was certainly helpful. Come on, we're going on a walk." Molly tugs on Caleb's arm.

"I cannot _leave_ ," he says, resisting. His gaze darts over to the closed door, the mechanical whirring of the rest of the cavern drowning out any potentially helpful noises. "How could I - I can't leave."

Molly inexorably pulls until Caleb finds himself standing, moving, staring at not the twin worried faces of his companions but the closed door, the closed _fucking_ door.

The denizens recognize them. Well, they recognize flamboyant Molly, even with his coat - now ashes - and scimitars missing. Most stop, not a few throw themselves to their knees, foreheads against the ground. Molly hurries past them. He's uncomfortable with the level of their gratitude and it would be funny that Molly has found something to be uncomfortable with if Caleb could think for one second on something other than -

They follow the tunnels up into the sunlight. It's bright, filling the air with the thick scent of warmth and how could the entrance to the slave mines be surrounded with jasmine. It hadn't always been slave mines, of course. They'd been regular mines before the lich showed up.

They did not mine diamonds.

Caleb fumbles in his pockets until he finds the diamond he uses for the Chromatic Orb, thrusts it at Molly.

"It is worth a hundred gold. It won't work, but it will help."

Molly gently takes the diamond, sticks it in the same pocket he stuck the amulet. He tucks Caleb's hand into the crook of his arm and leads them through the jasmine plants, the bees too lazy in the heat to do more than drift away.

"That's a bit presumptuous. Besides, we can afford one measly thousand gold diamond. I think I drank more than that at the inn two nights ago." He had, probably. He'd been grabby, touchy, kissing Jester and Fjord and even convincing Beau to angrily offer her cheek, but he'd been getting sloshed with-

Caleb slams his hand into Molly's sternum, knocking out a gasp. "Don't _joke_ on that - I can't - Don't -"

Molly's voice is a bit raspy. "You're right, my apologies. Let me throw myself on the altar of your useless worries."

Caleb's moving again, but Molly expects it. He sidles out of the way, let's Caleb brush past him, then shoves. Caleb stumbles, turns himself. Molly raises his eyebrows, flashes a sarcastic grin, and Caleb swings. He doesn't expect it to hit, but Molly doesn't move, and the tip of one of his fangs scores a line of red across Caleb's knuckles.

"There we go, that's nice. Take another." Molly licks at the blood around his mouth, smile now just bared teeth, gruesome with crimson. Caleb glances at his fist, the faint smear of blood, the ache forming.

"This does not make me feel better." He holds out his uninjured hand. "Give me the amulet."

Molly wipes at his mouth. "No."

"The amulet. Now."

"It'll be the same color for you. It won't help."

Moving quicker than he thought possible, Caleb fists the gaping collar of Molly's shirt and wrenches him closer, their breaths mingling. "Give it to me."

The barest hint of a smile twitches at corner of Molly's mouth. He pulls the amulet out and opens it: darker now, almost orange. The change has Caleb's grip weakening, falling.

The amulet indicates danger for the one who bares it loves most. They'd all taken turns holding it, whether to figure out the danger of the place they were in, or - for some cases - to figure out what they loved most. It'd been revelatory at times. Whomever each of them thought it spoke of went unsaid mostly. Molly - poor tiefling with the lost memories - his indicated himself. A uneasy pulse of nausea sweeps through Caleb's stomach that his outburst made Molly feel more threatened. He hadn't meant to - he'd only wanted -

He sits, the overwhelming sweetness of jasmine billowing out.

Molly clicks the amulet shut, primly folds his legs beneath him and joins Caleb. After a moment, he leans back so that he's lying in the jasmine. A bee sits on his left horn, investigating the colorful jewelry until deciding to fly off.

"I don't know what I'll do if she…" He's not sure if he even speaks, the sound of his voice lost amongst the strong smell and churning wind.

"You're underestimating our girls. They're the strongest of all of us. Especially Nott. She said it the first time we met her, didn't she? Nott the Brave. I don't think she knew how true it would be."

Caleb's eyes squeeze shut, so hard flashes of light spark behind his lids. "Don't say her name."

"Don't say Nott? The bravest of any of us? Don't say her name because you think she's dying down there and she did it for you? Fuck you, love. That's the best time to say her name." There isn't any vitriol or anger in Molly's voice, just casual, nonchalant, utterly convinced.

His hands itch. He wishes he had Frumpkin, that the stupid cat hadn't jumped in as a distraction and gotten himself displaced yet again. Caleb wrings his hands together, then finds a sprig of jasmine and systematically pulls apart the leaves, the flowers, the stringy wood fibers.

"Oh fuck." Molly snaps close the amulet and sits up. He scoots closer until he is practically draped in Caleb's lap. "Ok, let's think this through then. Let's imagine - the worst case scenario. What would be the worst thing."

"This. This is the worst thing," Caleb replies instantly.

"No, this is not the worst thing. The worst thing is that she dies. Nott dies." Molly's strong arms stop Caleb from shaking straight into another dimension. He strokes his hand through Caleb's hair, ignoring the blood and slime and undead noxious goop.

"Yes, that is the worst thing," he whispers.

"Ok, so, worst thing happens. What do we do next? We can resurrect her. If Jester doesn't know the spell, she'll learn it, right? And we'll have the money for a damned diamond, even if we can't get one immediately."

"They may not pay us," Caleb says, watching the impoverished former slaves slowly haul bodies of their fellows and the remnants of their bindings away. This misadventure has cost them in many ways.

"Well they got a mine of some-fucking-thing so we can rob it blind if we have to. She's your girl, we all know that, but don't underestimate what the rest of us feel for her. We'll do anything, Caleb, I promise you." His words ring the way they always do when he's telling the truth. The lies are perfect drops of snake oil, slick and easy to swallow. But Molly's verities are always jagged, too harsh, burning on the way down.

Caleb leans his forehead against Molly's collarbone, the susurrus of his breath moving the fabric of his shirt.

"I'll die without her," he says into the thin cut from battle that's already healing.

"Allfather's balls, don't do that. Diamonds aren't that cheap."

It's not a laugh, but it comes dangerously close.

Jester and Yasha work tirelessly throughout the day and the next, and the next. Caleb never enters the room, but each of the others brings in food, water, bandages, enough pastries to feed a starving nation. Fjord prays to his patron and Beau prays to the Storm Lord - maybe even just to Yasha. Caleb even spots Molly ritually running his fingers over the beads in his necklace.

Four days after the lich is slain, four days without showering or much sleeping, Jester appears in the doorway of the small room they invaded. Her cheeks are gaunt, her pallor gray, and her hair has fallen out of the braids she'd shown Nott how to put in. Her customary dress is missing, instead replaced with undyed linen that definitely isn't hers. She smiles at Caleb, holds out one of her lovely quivering hands.

"She wants to see you, Caleb." There are tears leaking out of her eyes, which take the chance to roll back in her head. Beau catches her before she falls, and between the monk and Fjord, they carry her away.

Caleb can't move. He stays rooted to the spot, his only view through the door of the rough-hewn wall devoid of features. Then, someone's hauling him up and moving him, and he wildly looks around to see Molly propelling him forward.

"She wants to _see you_ , you idiot. Get in there!"

The whole room smells like wet iron, a familiar smell. It's the same saturation of blood battlefields often get, especially when they are plowing through minions to get to a major player. They're all used to it. This has more of a distinctive bent. It's not a mixture of many foot soldiers, but just one. Just one goblin bleeding to death. Caleb's hand clenches reflexively on the amulet, which Molly gave back with the absolute promise that Caleb could not look at it.

Bandages cover the floor, most in various stages of drying brown, some glistening with fresher blood, others blackened. Cauterization also mixes with the smell; another familiar scent. The problem with scent, of course, is that it so resembles taste. Caleb will not be able to eat meat for a few months after this, the taste of cooked people flesh. Cooked Nott flesh. He gags, fails, vomits noisily to the side.

Yasha doesn't stir. She slumps against a far wall, unconscious, her hair disastrously poofy, war paint smeared. Someone - Jester - covered her in the least bloody bandages, and it will take all four of them to haul her out of the room. Caleb creeps closer to the small bed near the end of the room, the smaller figure on top curled away.

He stands over Nott. She's asleep, hands tucked against her stomach. She's wearing a shift, like Jester, like the first time he saw her, giant gold eyes peering out of a nest of black hair and the only part of the prison uniform that fit her. He reaches out and skims his hand along her small arm, down across her wrist, tucks her clawed hand into his.

" _Liebste_ ," he says, the word catching in his throat, choked. She doesn't say anything back.

Her fingers tighten on his, don't let go.

 

They are very carefully monitoring her alcohol consumption. He doesn't think she notices, with the rowdiness of the bar, several patrons drinking enough courage to come thank them. Every time Caleb goes to drink from her cup, surreptitiously water it down, he finds someone's beat him to it, usually Fjord, nonchalantly pouring from his water flask.

The attention makes Nott nervous. Her mask is up, blocking a good portion of her expression, but Caleb knows. The way she shrinks back from too raucous laughter, flinches from touches she would normally welcome, how her hand never strays too far from edges of her mask, making sure it's in place.

But whenever she looks at him, he smiles, and she relaxes.

When Caleb pulls out the amulet, just to check, it glows pale blue: safe, the safest. He slips it back into his pocket, but another hand worms its way in, pulls it back out. Caleb lets Molly take it. When Molly flips it open, the color isn't the same soft periwinkle he expects, but rather the gray-green of sage leaves. Caleb frowns.

"You are alright?" he whispers.

Molly snorts. "Am I alright? Are _you_ alright?"

"Why would I-?"

"Nevermind," Molly says. He stands, makes a grandiose statement about Nott saving all their lives and buys another round. Nott flushes, buries herself against Jester's voluminous skirts, but raises her glass anyway. It's distracting, as he intended.

Cheers rise in the bar, and soon they are plied with more alcohol than they should ever have. Molly does his usual bit, trying to stop the unnecessary amount of coin spent on them, but the barkeep is savvy, doesn't allow it. Too much gratitude, unfortunately.

Soon enough, most of the bar is hammered. Even in their group, Beau and Jester sing what might be the same song if in different languages, Fjord teeters like he's on a ship no one else is, and even Yasha giggles uncontrollably, when Caleb thought she may need to consume an entire distillery to get the slightest bit drunk.

While the group sings or giggles or sways about, Nott begins to yawn. It's a testament to her recovery that she allows Caleb to pick her up and carry her back to their rooms. Her eyes are closed when he removes her cloak and bandages, smoothing the messiest of hair flyaways. He tucks a blanket around her. He was so close to losing her; he'll die before he lets it happen again. Maybe dying would be too easy. Maybe he can do something more drastic.

He checks the amulet again, just to be sure. Pale blue. He sets it on the bed and begins to lay down his silver wire around the room, the spell so engrained it takes no concentration at all.

Alarm has a modification that it didn't before. He used to specify only himself and Nott allowed to cross it, but now he's going through everyone's name, adding them in as acceptable persons, trusted. The strangest part - it didn't feel weird at all.

Caleb finishes the spell, watches the silver brighten for a moment before settling into obscurity. He's at the door when Nott speaks.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

He half-turns. "What do you mean?"

"Your color's not blue. I don't know if you hurt yourself when you were doing that spell or something. Is it, um, emotional?" She makes a gagging sound, like the idea of emotional turmoil is too much to bear.

Caleb walks over to the bed where Nott still lays on her side, but the amulet is open in her hands. She holds it out for him to see, and she's right: it isn't the pale blue of perfect safety. It's gray-green.

He stops, stares. Caleb picks up the amulet, and it fades back to pale blue. He sets it in Nott's hands; it darkens to gray-green.

"And… it's me… the amulet is-"

"Of course it's you! Who else would it be?" Nott huffs, then turns over and pulls the blanket over her head.

He closes the door as softly as he can, and heads back downstairs. Even with music playing by a colorful halfling quartet, several groups cannot contain their singing. Especially Jester and Beau, who've managed to agree on a language, even if tune is still up in the air.

"Caleb!" they sing when he approaches. His face twists in an effort to smile and frown and cringe.

"Where is Molly?"

"He went that way!" they sing again, both pointing in different directions. He can't see Fjord, but Yasha waves him over. She places her heavy hand on his shoulder and it nearly brings him down.

"He went out back," she says in her soft gruff voice. She leans closer, her brows twisted in concern, and taps her fingers against his forehead. "He's thinking too hard."

Caleb nods. She continues to stare at his eyes, searching. When Yasha finds whatever she's looking for, she pushes him away gently.

The tavern teems with people, most of them drunk, even more wearing that slightly surprised look he's come to associate with the freed slaves. As most of the slaves are a combination of gnomes, dwarves, and halflings, Caleb towers over them. They part easily, reverently, and he ducks his head to avoid their gazes. The end of the bar hosts what must be the more ordinary patrons, older folk with distant eyes and deep tankards.

Caleb skirts past them, and out the door, which leads to a banked fire. It must be where the main cooking takes place, but at the moment serves as a quiet set of seats away from the somewhat humid inside. There's no one. The breeze stirs at the small flames, licking them up into something that might become a real fire. Nothing enough to worry about.

As one of the flames swells with light, Caleb can see a figure further out, supine, smoke rising from the cherry-red end of a pipe. He moves closer.

"Festivities getting to you? Lasted longer than I thought you would; I owe Beau a silver now." Molly breathes out smoke in a few rings, blows off the rest of it. Caleb sits.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Enjoying the sweet night air, of course." The whole area is still too close to the mines. The rancid smell of decomposing bodies and all the undead the lich threw at them lingers, even with the breeze, even with the attempt to bury everything. The air is anything but sweet.

" _Kuhscheiße_ ," he says. Molly laughs.

"Not me, I would never." He sucks in another breath of smoke, then offers it to Caleb. "Try it? It'll calm you down, I promise."

"No."

"Suit yourself." Molly sighs, a wistful noise he doesn't often make. "This thing I do, I don't understand it much of the time, you know."

"The, er, the blood hunter-"

"Yeah, yeah that. It's still fucking weird, which is saying a lot for me. One of the things we're supposed to learn about is - is death. And I thought what if Nott - if she - if Nott - and we bring her back, and all I can think about is what it was like? What she saw there?" Molly angrily stubs out his pipe.

"When did you have this thought?"

"When did I-?"

"About Nott. Did you think when we didn't know? When we thought her close to death? Did you think this when you prayed to your god to help her?"

Molly's eyes glint with starlight when he turns his head. "No."

"Then, I think, this is your head going too far. _Überdenken_ . It is not your, uh, instinct to be - _herzlos_ \- callous."

They don't say anything and watch the sky. It's not yet the season for falling stars, but one streaks across anyway. Jester loves them, makes a dozen wishes and polices them all to ensure they've made them too. This one is errant, early, burning up before anyone can notice.

"How's your-" Molly wiggles his fingers at his temple, like it means something. "-going? Everything okay?"

Caleb chuckles, point proven, then sinks down next to Molly. The grass is cold and sparse, but what little of it there is proves soft. "You should know."

"Should I? That's no good, then. I've been all in my own head, can't tell what you're thinking."

Caleb runs his fingers through the grass, blades catching against his rough skin. "You have not asked me about _die Ordnung_."

"Well, didn't seem quite appropriate. But if you'd like to tell me, I'm all ears."

A small smile twitches in Caleb's mouth. "You are mostly horns, from this perspective."

Molly bursts out with laughter. "That was truly terrible. Never try to be funny again."

The smile fades quickly. "Where did I…? They wanted me to learn magic. I had always studied magic with intent before. Paladin magic is for the god's use. You are a - a tool. This was freedom."

"I found that freedom is a length of rope they want you to hang yourself with," Molly says quietly.

"I did." Caleb closes his eyes. There were so many books to choose from, so many schools to learn and spells. He could make spells, one day, if he prayed enough and studied enough. "I learned… everything."

"Too much?"

"Yes, too much." It's never a good idea to let the members of your fanatical cult learn history or anything about societies besides the one created. The tenuous logic and rules holding the cult together fall apart so easily. "I learned that their rules were not Pelor's teachings. They did not care. They wanted me to be powerful, so I was powerful. They wanted me to, ah, to - show-off. So I show-off. I could make fire so hot it would burn up instantly."

"They didn't like that."

"No. It is not flashy. To keep power that way, you need fear. And I was terrifying. I did everything they asked me to. Because I believed in Pelor. But, _zudem_ , because I was a show-off."

"What changed?"

"A whole family, they say, are heretics. Not a small family, _nein_ , seventeen of them. Parents, grandparents, an aunt and uncle, but many children. It is no trouble to me, the children. Not anymore. I am to leave the parents until the end, so they see. I burn the children quickly, though I will be scolded later. The father is last. He stared right at me, he did not look away, even though the fire evaporated the moisture of his eyes. He still looked at me, when I turned and burnt down the temple, the priests, everyone. His eyes, sometimes, I can still…"

"Can I touch you right now?"

Caleb must nod, because soon hands are grabbing his shoulders, and Molly shakes him hard enough to dissipate the image. His expressive face is stone, mouth firm, something shiny tracking down his cheeks.

"That's a fucking awful thing. It's a fucking awful thing that was done to you, and it's a fucking awful thing that you did." Molly breathes in deep, shaky. "And so - now, you, what? Atone?"

"Yes."

"Fuck." Molly kisses Caleb hard on the forehead, then leans them together. Whatever he thinks, there's something about his reaction that lifts up Caleb, just enough. He hasn't told anyone everything, not a single one of their party, not even Nott. It's cruel to put a burden on someone, but withstanding it alone was killing him.

" _Vielen Dank_."

Molly laughs, exasperated. "Don't thank me for this shit. It's just what family does."

They breathe each other's air for a while. Caleb loses track of the time, though he knows the hour, knows when it passes into the next. Eventually, Molly slides down, his head in Caleb's lap.

"Here. Pet my hair."

Caleb sputters, bewildered. "Pet your-"

"My hair. Pretend I'm Frumpkin."

Unsure of what else to do, Caleb complies. Molly's hair is soft, much softer than Frumpkin's, which always has a weird static to it. It's more enjoyable than he'd think, and the silence between them feels full yet light.

Caleb is sure Molly's asleep, which he would protest with indignation, but can't bring himself to it. They deserve a small soft moment, don't they? All of them; it's been a long week.

He traces familiar constellations in the sky. He knows them all, of course, but at one point, only his imagination connected them, only his heart made sense of the heavens. He can still see the massive three-mast ship, the two kittens tumbling, the old man praying. They're soothing in their reliability and in their uniqueness; they are only for him.

"Are you alright?" Molly asks. When Caleb glances down, he's definitely not asleep, keen eyes assessing. He's too sharp for his own good.

"You should tell me." Caleb presses the warm metal of the amulet against Molly's bare chest.

"Figured ourselves out a little secret, did we." His aloof words belay the blush growing along his skin, his long fingers clutching the amulet.

"Molly-"

"Shh, you're going to ruin the moment." Molly slides his hand through the short hair behind Caleb's head. He pulls him down.

The amulet falls open to the side.

Pale blue.

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- This entire idea stems from a thought about what could possibly be Caleb's backstory. I agree with the common theory that he's a deserter war mage, but I wrote this to explore something completely different.
> 
> \- This was supposed to be 1000 words and how did this happen.
> 
> \- Caleb would not stop being Nott's dad no matter how much I tried to minimize the story, so there you go.
> 
> \- I made up so much shit so if it conflicts with Mercer's canon or D&D canon or anything/everything, I apologize.
> 
> \- Quote from the lovely Nikki Ursula poetry at cardiamachine.co.vu
> 
> \- oh my god I forgot that one of Molly's quotes (freedom is a length of rope) is from Supernatural. I thought it was a random profound saying but it was just Castiel what the hell. I'm not a plagiarist!


End file.
